Dead as a Scone Read Online Free PDF Page B

spotlight is on Stuart, where it belongs.
    Stuart Battlebridge was a principal in the firm of Gordon & Battlebridge, the agency that provided public relations support for the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. Nigel admired the brochures and news releases that G&B developed, but he thought the firm worked a tad too hard to stay on the cutting edge of societal trends. To wit: The only beverages on offer were bottled waters and decaffeinated soft drinks. The photos on the walls showcased endangered species. The staff wore business casual clothing every day; Stuart’s khaki slacks and wool Aran sweater presented a decided contrast to Nigel’s and Archibald’s three-piece suits. And Stuart’s office, where the three of them now chatted, featured an eclectic hodgepodge of furniture that supposedly connoted creativity. Nigel sat on a plain wooden rocker, Archibald in a leather upholstered club chair, and Stuart on the edge of his glass and metal desk.
    Nigel leaned back in his chair as Stuart prefaced his explanation with a toothy smile. “We want our public relations efforts for the museum to pay dividends,” Stuart said. “Recall what happened fourteen years ago when we announced the demise of Mary Hawker Evans. She was such a fascinating character that our news release read like a novel. It generated no less than seven major feature articles.”
    Archibald pressed his inquiry: “And a handle is?”
    “An idea that a reporter can pick up and run with. For example, Mary Hawker Evans was an accomplished yachts-woman who once sailed to India using nineteenth-century tea-route charts that are now on display in the museum’s map room. The details we provided the press grew into a story about the museum’s superb map collection.”
    Archibald abruptly grunted an acknowledgment, then said, “In other words, Elspeth led a boring life of no possible interest to reporters.”
    Stuart shrugged. “One doesn’t make bread without flour or feature articles without media handles.”
    The mention of bread made Nigel realize that he felt peckish. At the trustees’ meeting, he had nibbled the edges of a scone—but that had been hours earlier. He glanced out the window. The offices of Gordon & Battlebridge were on Monson Road, a short street in Tunbridge Wells’s town centre known for its varied shops and businesses. A few doors away was a bakery that did lovely French pastries and brewed an excellent cup of coffee. Perhaps he could persuade Stuart to send out for a snack.
    Regrettably, Nigel waited a moment too long to ask.
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Archibald said. “The Hawkers are one of England’s great mercantile families. Certainly there are historical details that will intrigue the press.”
    Stuart let loose another sigh. “I know the Hawker saga by heart. Stop me if I accidentally say something that strikes you as interesting:
    “The Hawker dynasty was created by Commodore Desmond Hawker, the founder of the Hawker & Son Tea Merchants.” Stuart’s droning delivery reminded Nigel of a soporific history teacher he hadn’t thought of for twenty-five years. “One is advised not to look too closely at the business methods Desmond used to grow his fortune. Rumors abound of aggressive tactics and close-to-the-edge practices. Some say the man was a scoundrel. As we all know, back in the nineteenth century, scoundrel was often synonymous with successful .
    “Desmond was born in 1810, during the heart of the Napoleonic War, and lived to the ripe old age of ninety-four. The Hawkers tend to be hale and hearty folk, with several octogenarians and nonagenarians in the fold. Mary Hawker Evans made it to an even ninety years.
    “Desmond married late in life. His one son, Basil Hawker—born in 1865, died in 1950—is best described as a superb businessman but a bland, unimaginative individual.”
    Nigel noted that Stuart looked his way when he said “bland, unimaginative individual.” The ungrateful rotter was